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The door sticks and Jacket closes it—click, click, click.
He locks it out of habit. Same pattern, always the same. Three moments to be exact, and he always makes sure. It’s just routine, another thing to keep his brain awake. Your heart beats real fast after a call. It feels like your breaths’ knocked out of your lungs.
The air smells like her. Vanilla smoke, old perfume in cheap bottles. The blonde bought it a while ago at the corner store. When she was still going through her withdrawals, she smelled of sweat and something pungent and metallic. Likely the blood and drugs. Now it’s something more soft, but Jacket still doesn’t like such strong scents.
She’s on the bed again, kicking her feet in the air.
Her shirt’s too big, hanging off one shoulder. It’s Jacket’s. The one with the bleach stain down the side. He can see the dip of her spine, her shoulder blade twitching every time she flips a page in that magazine he often finds her browsing. Some old fashion zine he had lying around in his living room that he never got around to reading, not that he had much interest anyways—but at least it now has a reason to be in his apartment anyway.
Jacket pauses and stares—taking it in. It still feels kind of surreal with another human being in his house. Makes him feel lightheaded sometimes, especially when he comes out of his room after hours of laying there and seeing a girl he rescued just a week and a half earlier laid out on the couch.
He takes off his boots by the door, slowly, laces sticky with blood. His knuckles are raw and split, as he didn’t wrap them tonight. Should’ve, but he was in a hurry.
She hasn’t looked up yet, but she knows he’s there. The air between them is still pretty awkward—to be fair, how they met was a situation that wasn’t easy to talk about. On such note, Jacket didn’t like talking much at all.
He moved through the apartment to his room like a ghost. He didn’t want to touch anything until he’s washed, despite his earlier habits. After meeting her, he’s been much more clean and mindful of his hygiene and living space. Her being around him has made him more mindful of their conditions.
She’s still on the bed, but her magazine’s closed now. She’s watching him.
Her eyes are all shadow in this light — deep and rimmed black. There’s a smear of mascara on her cheek. She must’ve wiped it with her wrist earlier and forgot, Jacket muses.
She smiles softly, her eyelids widening a bit now that he’s looked back at her.
The air is quiet, and Jacket just stares at her. He likes looking and observing, zoning out—it feels good.
Her nose curves downward. It’s long, crooked a little. She used to say clients actually quite liked it. Made her look “exotic.” Jacket thinks it makes her look like she belongs in a painting. Her lips are thin, and she glosses them with the same pink shade as her eyeshadow. It looks nice.
She sits up and folds her legs under herself. Doesn’t say anything. Jacket steps closer, and she reaches out, not for his hand, for his wrist. Her fingers press into the bone, just above the place where the blood starts. She doesn’t flinch. Just traces the mess with a touch that makes Jackets spine crawl. Her eyes stare with sadness. Jacket wavers, feels as he owes her something.
Im okay, Jacket wants to say. But nothing ever comes out, just breath. She knows what it means, though. Their communication has gotten better. It was rough at the start, but they’ve smoothen it out as she’s come to understand him more. Jacket was a strange man afterall.
She bites her lip. Her teeth are crooked, a little yellowed. She used to hate them. Said she was saving up for veneers, back when she was working the corners near 8th. The night after he brought her home, Jacket told her he liked them like this once, and she laughed so hard she cried. Then she kept crying. Wet, silent sobs that soaked into his collarbone and rubbed her rehydrated mascara streaks all over his shoulder. She must’ve been dealing with the withdrawals—it was a long night for her.
Despite being in a situation like that, crying with someone, He never knows what to do when she cries. He attempts things like rubbing her back, her cheek, hugging her. It feels weird and awkward for him but he tries, and it works well enough for her to tire herself out after a few minutes.
He stares at her thumb brushing over his wrist again. It’s not gentle, not rough, just curious.
"Bad night?" she asks. He nods once, eyes still locked on her thumb. They drift to her knees, the way they peek out from under his old shirt. She had fair skin and bruises. She always bruises easy.
I want to kiss them. I want to do something good with my hands for once.
She notices the way he’s been sulking and staring and shifts, slowly, pulling him in. She pats the space beside her on the bed. He sits, her thigh pressing against his.
She leans her head on his shoulder, and he smell her hair. It’s the same ‘2 in 1’ shampoo he uses. Smells nice, floral and fruity but artificial. His shirt slips lower on her shoulder.
She stares at her feet, trying to find conversation. "You didn’t eat, did you?"
Jacket shakes his head.
She sighs. It's not annoyed — it's soft, like she's tired for him.
"You always forget."
He doesn’t tell her he didn’t forget. It didn’t really register in his head. He was busy thinking of other things. Her hand rests on his thigh. The two of them just sit there in silence, looking at their feet.
She tilts her face up toward his.
"Take a shower," she says. Her lips brush his jaw. “Then come back."